Gabrielle
by Cameron-Sholto
Summary: ON PERMANENT HAITUS. OOTV CANON. Prequel to Monster and Speechless. Detective Sergeant Lestrade is sent on a dubious mission to investigate a human trafficking ring. What he finds is far more than he expected. Mystrade.
1. The Mission

**Gabrielle**

_**Prequel to Monster and Speechless**_

__**_DISCLAIMER: I do not own BBC Sherlock in any way whatsoever. Nor do I own Lestrade, as much as I wish I did. This is for entertainment only, and I love and respect the creators. Please do not sue my ass._**

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><p><strong>Chapter One: The Mission<strong>

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><p>In retrospect, thought Gregory Lestrade as he slid off his hot pink kitten heels, his life probably would have been a lot less complicated had he never slipped into bed with Libby Frost in the first place. That had been his first mistake. His second had been getting caught.<p>

He sighed, shaking his head as he eased into his armchair. All of this. For what?

The phone rang, startling him from his reverie. He ran to it, nearly dropping it as he pulled it from the wall.

"Hello," he said in a soft, feminine voice.

"I need you. Please."

He bit his lower lip, frowning in spite of himself.

_This should be good news, you dolt. This is exactly what you've been waiting for. Don't screw it up._

"I'll be right there. Hang on."

* * *

><p><strong>FOUR MONTHS PRIOR<strong>

Detective Sergeant Lestrade sauntered into his new office, looking pleased as punch. Detective Sergeant. Finally. Well, it had only taken two years of persistence. He was so, so glad to be off Narcotics finally. It seemed that he was on his way, which was not bad for a man not yet in his thirties.

He had barely eased into his chair when there was a knock at the door. He sighed.

"Yes, what is it?

"Sir," piped a DC, leaning in. "Meeting."

He nodded. "I'll be right there, James."

He smiled slightly to himself. _Sir._ That would take some getting used to.

By the time he got to the meeting, his superior was beginning to look rather exasperated. This turned to mild disgust as Lestrade walked in.

"Lestrade, I don't know what it was like under Morris, but here, I expect my officers to be prompt, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir." He looked up at his new boss with a slight smile which faded quickly as he recognized the man.

Detective Inspector Davis Frost was a well-built man in his mid-fifties, far older than most men of his rank. But he had an air of deep-rooted authority that radiated from the tips of his loafers to the steely grey eyes that were currently in the process of shish-kabobing Lestrade. The same steel grey eyes that his flirt of a college-age daughter had.

The men glared at each other for what felt like an eternity before Frost coughed, passing the evidence folder around.

"Gentlemen. I regret to inform those of you who are naïve that corruption is rife in our world. No more so than in our very government. We have reason to believe that several members of parliament are involved in a major human trafficking operation."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. Most of the others looked confused.

"That's whores, you bloody idiots," growled Frost.

"Oh, right yeah," retorted DC Peters, a thin, weak-jawed lad.

Frost shook his head. "Human trafficking is a serious criminal offence. And it is our job to put a stop to it. We will need to send someone undercover into the Hellhole, a club we suspect is used as a front. This requires discretion, intelligence, and willingness to deal with uncomfortable and compromising situations."

He looked around the room, sighing. "Well, one out of three isn't terrible, I guess. Lestrade."

He stared at the man in shock. "Sir?"

Frost smiled wickedly at him. "Oh, did I mention that you'll have to go in as a woman?"

Lestrade gulped, ignoring the snickers of his colleagues. "We do _have _women in the CID, sir."

"Pah! Never trust a woman to do a man dressed as a woman's job."

"But sir, why me?"

Frost shot him a knowing glare. He knew full well why. The man hated him.

"Because, Lestrade, you have the best legs."

The snickers intensified. Lestrade kicked Peters under the table.

Frost stood, leading him out the door with a hand on his shoulder.

"Come now, Lestrade," he hissed. "You can borrow my daughter's clothes. I know how eager you've been to get in them."

Lestrade wanted nothing more at that moment than to die.


	2. Transformation

**Transformation**

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><p>Lestrade sighed as he tried desperately to find tights that would fit. Libby Frost was a well-built young woman, but her legs were not quite as muscular as his. And after repeated slip-ups with his razor, his legs looked like something out of a slasher film. Tights were no longer an option. They were a necessity.<p>

He finally managed to find a pair that were not too snug, but he still felt a bit like he was trying to squeeze steak through a nozzle. He whimpered softly as he tried to sit. This would take some getting used to.

Peters giggled to himself as he helped him zip into the hot pink halter dress Frost had picked out. "It will go with your complexion," he had chuckled.

Lestrade wondered exactly how much experience his inspector had with cross-dressing. He decided he didn't really want to know.

Filling out his chest had proven to be quite difficult. Lean as he was, he had little natural material to work with. They had finally settled on a rather daring combination of bread rolls and silk handkerchiefs (presumably to prevent crumbs from itching his chest and causing him to blow his cover.)

"Never thought I'd be making baps from baps, sir," remarked Peters with a grin.

Lestrade groaned. "I'll make the jokes, Peters."

Libby herself had come over to do his makeup. She tried very hard not to giggle when she saw him.

"Oh, God, Greg. I am so sorry."

He smiled warmly at her. "It wasn't your fault. Though, honestly, I think your father will never forgive me."

She smirked. "It was worth it though, yeah?"

_Not really, no._

He smiled, pained. "Yes."

Then there was only one step remaining. Hair.

He had spent hours at the wigmaker's trying to find some way to make his face look less masculine. He must have tried on a dozen styles before he'd settled on a chestnut updo. It still did little to weaken his manly jaw, but it gave him an air of a dominant sort of woman, and no one would question it as they would have questioned the long blonde hair that seemed to be in vogue with that particular subculture.

He looked in the mirror. Yes, all in all, it wasn't half-bad. He certainly wasn't going to win any beauty contests, but he'd survive one night.

"Here, try these on." Libby handed him a pair of hot pink kitten heels. He gulped.

"How the hell do I walk in those?"

"It's really not that hard. You'll be fine. Now hurry up. You were supposed to be at the club an hour ago. Gabrielle."

"Gabrielle?"

She smirked, handing him his new ID.

_GABRIELLE BROWN_

He smiled. "It'll be hard to get used to that. Good thing I only have to do this once."

As he staggered outside to meet the car, Libby turned to Peters. "Steven, you didn't _tell him?"_

_He chuckled. "Nope. Poor sod. He has no idea what he's getting into."_

"_You're wicked."_

"_I know."_


	3. Encounter

**Encounter**

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><p>The Hellhole, in Lestrade's opinion, could not have been more aptly named. As he walked slowly amid the throngs of young, writhing bodies and cloying, vibrant flesh, he could very easily imagine that he had begun some sort of Dantean journey.<p>

_Halfway through my first week at the CID, I found that I was in a bleeding dance club_, he mused. That was about the only bit of the _Commedia_ he remembered. And about all he'd read, to be honest. Had the rest of it continued along that line, perhaps he would have had more trouble sleeping through it.

He tried to focus on walking like a woman as he skirted the pulsating crimson-lit dance floor, heading for the bar where he could sit down and more easily scope out any potential informants. As he approached an empty seat, however, the high heels proved to be too much for him, and he went down like a ton of bricks, dragging his ankle with him.

As he fell, biting his lower lip so as not to cry out, he felt a pair of slender arms wrap about his torso. The person attached to these arms grunted slightly, clearly expecting the damsel in distress to be a bit lighter.

"Mind how you go," muttered a bracing tenor in his ear. The man lifted him to his feet, helping him to a barstool.

"Thank you," managed Lestrade, doing his best to achieve a breathy feminine voice.

He smiled nervously at his rescuer. He was a young man, probably about five years younger than Lestrade himself, with amber hair coiffed elegantly about his brow, making him look a good deal older. When he smiled at the detective, however, his sea blue eyes glowed with more than a hint of mischief.

_This one could be dangerous._

"Are you alright, miss. . .?"

"Brown," Lestrade managed. "Please, call me Gabby."

"Gabby." The man's voice held more than a touch of amusement as he looked over Lestrade's ensemble.

_He knows. Damn it. He knows._

But the man said nothing. He merely held Lestrade's gaze.

"You haven't answered my question. Are you alright? That looked rather painful."

"Fine," gasped Lestrade, rising to his feet. He immediately regretted this decision, as blinding pain from his ankle made him reel once more.

The young man caught him again, easing him back onto the chair. "Hardy. You need a doctor."

"No," he said as emphatically as he could. "I'm really fine. Just a sprain, I think."

The man's eyes flitted over him with concern. "Fine. I may not be a doctor, but may I?"

Lestrade sighed. "Oh, all right. But don't you dare cause a scene."

The man smirked. "I won't promise you anything."

Lestrade cried out gently in pain as the man's string fingers probed at his ankle. But what concerned him more was the way his hand lingered there as he looked up to meet his eyes.

"Well, it isn't broken, but that was rather a close call. Perhaps heels aren't really your style, my dear."

Lestrade smiled weakly. "No, I don't wear them often," he replied honestly.

The man stood, shaking his head. "It's a shame. You shan't be dancing for at least a week on that leg. . . And I should very much like to ask you to dance."

Lestrade gulped. "R-really?"

"You are definitely the most interesting girl here, Gabby. Look around."

Lestrade complied.

"What do you see? Oversexed fleshpots, all. Not a brain cell between them, I should think. But you. There's something about you that's different. You've an intelligence about you, a sense of gravitas. And besides," he added smirking, "I do believe you're the first woman I can honestly say has fallen for me."

"That's true enough," replied Lestrade, laughing uncomfortably.

_Who the hell are you? Please don't be wasting my time. I've a case to solve. . ._

The man leaned in, whispering in Lestrade's ear. He shuddered as he felt his warm breath on the nape of his neck.

"Promise me. Promise me a dance."

Lestrade pulled away, frowning. "But I. . . I don't even know who you are!"

The man nodded, handing him a business card. "My name is Mycroft. You can call me Mycroft," he added with another slight smirk.

Lestrade looked down at the card.

_Mycroft Holmes. Aide to Sir Walter Rhylstone, MP_

Lestrade frowned. Rhylstone. . . The name was familiar. . .

"I'll be right back," he muttered to Mycroft. "I have to make a call."

Mycroft nodded. "Let me help you to the phone. It's the least I can do."

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><p>"Rhylstone?" crowed Frost triumphantly. "My god, Lestrade, you've hit the jackpot!"<p>

"Sir?"

"He's the centre of the whole thing, allegedly. And you say you've met his aide?"

"Yes, sir," admitted Lestrade. He did not like where this was going.

"Well, good God, man, what are you still doing talking to me? Your orders are to work him as a contact. Whatever it takes. Do you understand?"

Lestrade frowned. "Whatever it takes, sir?"

"Yes, of course. What, are you squeamish, Lestrade?"

"N-no sir," he replied weakly.

"Good. Do not contact me again until you have your information. By all accounts, Sergeant Lestrade is on holiday."

"Right."

He hung up, looking outside at the young government aide who was smiling at him expectantly.

"I believe yes, I can promise you a dance," he said.

The young man beamed at him. "Fantastic. Can I buy you a drink?"


	4. Complications

**Complications**

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><p>About four hours and far too many drinks later, Lestrade somehow found himself sitting on the a couch in a rather well-furnished apartment. He could not remember exactly how he had gotten there, just that it had something to do with ice and not being able to go home yet.<p>

"What kind of tea do you like?" called Mycroft from the kitchen.

Lestrade frowned. "Oh, whatever you'd like."

The young man returned a little while later with an ice pack. He rolled his eyes at the detective.

"Come on, Gabby. You've got to elevate that ankle of yours, or the swelling will never go down."

He grabbed a throw pillow, propping his leg up on the coffee table and clamping the ice pack around it. Lestrade hissed in pain at the contact, and Mycroft looked at him, a faint line of worry on his face.

"I'm sorry. Did that hurt?"

"I'm fine," hissed Lestrade.

"Liar."

Mycroft leaned over, kissing him gently on the forehead.

Lestrade recoiled slightly at the contact, but the alcohol had dulled his inhibitions somewhat, and, to be honest, the man wasn't trying anything too forward as of yet.

_You have to get him to talk._

"What's wrong?" asked Mycroft, icy blue eyes bright with concern.

"Nothing. My leg," he muttered.

"So it does hurt. Well, now you've admitted it, I'm afraid I don't have much of a choice."

Lestrade froze. "A choice?"

_This. This does not sound good._

The man leaned close, whispering in his ear. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to make you forget about your ankle."

"I. . . I. . . uh, I really don't think -"

His protests were cut off as Mycroft kissed him. It was gentle at first, as though the aide were afraid to alarm him. Not that it stopped him from being alarmed. He wanted to pull away, but Frost was depending on him. And the sooner he got his information. . .

So he kissed back, trying not to think about what he was doing.

_Imagine he's a woman. You can do that, Greg. Just. . . Imagine._

It wasn't that difficult to do, he realized as his fingers snaked into the younger man's hair. His skin was smooth and soft against the detective's, and the way he caressed his jaw with light, tripping fingers. . .

Suddenly, he pulled away from Lestrade's mouth, nibbling gently along his jaw line. Lestrade gasped in spite of himself as the man reached his ear, nipping it gently.

He tensed as Mycroft suddenly pinned his arms down with surprising strength, hissing in his ear.

"So, what do you want to know? _Detective Sergeant Brown, CID_."

Lestrade tried to fight back, but Mycroft swung a leg over him, pinning him down. He nuzzled against Lestrade's temple, humming with amusement.

"It's been fun, but, see, I pinched your warrant card back at the club. I know who you are, Gabby. So why don't you just tell me why you're here."

"I. . . I. . ."

"What do you want, Gabby?"

Lestrade sighed. He might as well be honest. . . To a point.

"Tell me about Rhylstone."

Mycroft pulled back, smirking at him. "See, that wasn't so hard."

He kissed Lestrade again on the mouth, briefer this time.

"It's about the trafficking ring, isn't it?"

Lestrade stared at him in shock.

"Oh, don't look so surprised. I've been collecting evidence against him for months. You're lucky I hate the bastard."

_Damn, he's good._

Lestrade was impressed, in spite of himself. "So you're. . ."

"Working against him? Of course. And you're going to help me bring him down, aren't you?"

"But why would you want to -"

Mycroft smirked. "You do not want to know what that man makes his subordinates do. He's a monster. And besides, I can't abide corruption. It is one thing I can never stand. Call me an idealist, but I like my civil servants actually serving their country."

Lestrade smiled. "I suppose that makes you a hero, Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft smirked sardonically, pulling him close. "I suppose."

This act of tenderness startled Lestrade almost more than the initial kiss. "You do realize I was playing you earlier, yeah?"

Mycroft kissed the tip of his nose. "Not as well as I was playing you, my dear. And I do believe mine was the better hand."

Lestrade's mind raced.

_There's no need to keep up your cover any longer, is there? You can run. You can leave. You can get the hell out before things get complicated._

But, somehow, he wasn't able to move. Not yet.

_Not until the job is done._

And that hesitation made all the difference in the long run.


	5. Vigilance

**Vigilance**

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><p>It was several months before they were able to make a move. Mycroft did uphold his end of the bargain, supplying Lestrade with as much evidence as he could to implicate Rhylstone in the blossoming scandal. But at the end of the day, both knew that it would not be enough. They were going to have to catch the man red-handed.<p>

As he sat on the couch in Mycroft's flat one evening, Lestrade couldn't help but wonder if they were ever going to finish the investigation. He just wanted the whole thing over with. He was tired of ill-fitting clothes and impossible shoes. He was tired of constantly looking behind him, praying his cover wouldn't be blown. And most of all, he was tired of lying to the charming young man who was currently fumbling about in the kitchen.

Mycroft wasn't a bad sort, really. He was kind, intelligent, and a very, very good kisser. . . Lestrade colored as that last thought came to mind. He hated this. All of it. The young aide deserved better than to be a pawn in this intricate game. But then, they were both pawns, weren't they?

Lestrade sighed. It was only a matter of time. Truth would out. And what then?

He was pulled from his reverie as the smell of burning caught his nose.

"Mycroft, are you alright in there?" he asked.

"Absolutely," replied a snippy voice. "No problem. Everything's fine."

He ran into the kitchen, grateful he'd taken off his heels.

The stove was ablaze, clearly the result of a buildup of grease. Mycroft was leaning over the sink, filling a bucket of water to dump on the thoroughly inflamed appliance.

"Don't you dare!" cried Lestrade, yanking him out of the room. "Christ, Mycroft, are you trying to kill us both? That's a grease fire! Pouring water on it won't help. We have to smother it!"

Mycroft stared at him in alarm. "What?"

Lestrade shook his head, charging into the younger man's bedroom. He returned with several wool blankets.

"Come on. Don't just stand there like a moron."

After several tortuous minutes, they managed to extinguish the flames. Mycroft groaned at the state of his kitchen and worse, his blankets.

Lestrade put a hand on his arm. "I'll buy you new ones."

Mycroft looked like he wanted to cry. "I. . . I'm sorry. I'm afraid dinner's ruined, Gaby."

"I wasn't that hungry anyway."

The younger man looked at him appraisingly before throwing his arms around him.

It wasn't as awkward as the first time they'd embraced. Lestrade was growing used to playing the doting girlfriend. And that terrified him more than a little.

He gasped as Mycroft's teeth found purchase on his carotid artery and he hummed gently against the sergeant's skin, sending shivers down his spine.  
>"'Croft," he gasped.<p>

"Hmm?" mused the man, continuing to nuzzle against him.

"Stop."

The word came out harsher than he'd intended, and as the aide leaned back, he could see the hurt in his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"I. . ." Lestrade sighed. "I have to know if this is going anywhere."

The younger man smiled, running a finger across his cheek. "You mean this?"

He shook his head, strands of chestnut hair coming lose from its updo. "No, I mean this investigation. Mycroft, do you think. . . Are you sure you're committed to this? You say you are, but we still don't have any hard evidence. And I. . . I just want this dealt with."

He nodded gently. "I know. I know, sweetheart. Trust me, I want it almost as badly as you do. But I'm afraid that, to catch him, it'll be dangerous. I. . . I don't want to lose you."

Lestrade gulped at the desperation in his eyes. "I'm a police officer. My job is dangerous. I'll be fine. But the longer we wait. . ."

Mycroft nodded again. "I understand. There's. . . an event. Two weeks from now. A sort of social. Rhylstone will be there. I'm sure we can catch him getting up to something."

Lestrade frowned. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

Mycroft chuckled. "Well, I was going to. Over dinner. But you know how that worked out."

Lestrade smiled. "Next time, let me do the cooking, alright?"

He almost managed to keep his head about him as the younger man pulled him into a kiss.

* * *

><p>Kissing led to touching. Touching led back to the couch. And after a while. . .<p>

"What's wrong?" crooned Mycroft, his hand delicately caressing Lestrade's bony knee.

"Something's wrong?"

"Don't lie to me, Gaby. You know I can see through you when you do."

He sighed. That was true enough. He often wondered why the man seemed capable of observing everything except the biggest secret.

"I just. . ."

Mycroft seemed to stare into his soul. "Gabrielle. What is it?"

"Just going over the case." That was true enough.

Mycroft smirked slightly, nibbling on his ear. "Well, stop it. There's time enough for that tomorrow."

Lestrade tensed slightly as the man's hand played about his stomach.

_Oh, Christ._

He'd known it was only a matter of time before things reached this level. There was nothing he could do, no way to. . . No. He couldn't. Not this.

"Mycroft. I'm sorry."

He pulled away, standing abruptly. The younger man frowned.

"Gaby? Why. . . I don't understand. Don't you. . . Aren't you attracted to me?"

Lestrade gulped. It killed him to see the younger man like this, so vulnerable, so unsure of himself.

"That's not it. I just. . . I can't. Please."

"Why not?"

He sighed. Of course he wasn't going to let this go. Not a man as stubborn as he was. "Because I'm Catholic," he said simply. That was true in either case.

_Because it would be a sin._

Mycroft's eyes glinted in recognition as he stood, pulling the sergeant into a comfortable embrace, resting his chin on the top of his head.

"I'm sorry. I should be more considerate. I won't. . . I won't ask you to do anything that would make you uncomfortable."

He sighed, breathing in Mycroft's scent, sinking into the warm embrace.

_God, why? It isn't fair._

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><p><strong><em>AN: Sorry for the delay! Serious writer's block issues! Next chapter will have some lighter bits, I promise. Also, I'll be updating "<em>Monster"_ next week as well. Thank you for your patience!_  
><strong>


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